


My River Runs to Thee

by rhosgotskulled



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bush POV, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flying Colours, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical Disability, its Flying Colours in bush's pov!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-11-28 06:16:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18204617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhosgotskulled/pseuds/rhosgotskulled
Summary: This is a reworking of the C.S Forester novel Flying Colours as told in the POV of character William Bush.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first Chapter is a rewriting of the first 4 chapters of Flying Colours. The Name of the fic is from Emily Dickinson's poem of the same name. 
> 
> My River runs to thee –  
> Blue Sea – Wilt welcome me?
> 
> My River wait reply.  
> Oh Sea – look graciously!
> 
> I’ll fetch thee Brooks  
> From spotted nooks –
> 
> Say Sea – take Me?
> 
> I hope you enjoy this representation of the story. I love this book so much and its with a big affection for the characters and the book that I write this fic with. Please leave a kudos and/or a review if you have enjoyed.

The room Bush found himself lying in was a long and dark space, with a little sunlight seeping through narrow bars in the small windows just below the ceiling. It was hard to see anything with the dimness and of the wearing effects of laudanum that made Bush's vision so blurred. The smell hit Bush before he could even see the other patients next to him, a warm population of feverish and sweaty skins mixed with the strong odor of blood that left the taste in iron in everyone's mouths. Bush wondered where he was, his first thoughts immediately of the Sutherland, of Captain Hornblower. His heart quickened in the realisation of what this place meant for him. Though he was still alive, this place was not salvation; it was in fact a prison.  
In the corridors he could hear distant mutterings from the guards, in what language Bush could hardly know nor care. He was now however familiar with the voice of his Italian surgeon, as every morning and evening the small and thin man would un-bandaged and re-bandaged his stump, giving Bush his dose of laudanum to rest. He would also notice a guard place a plate of gruel and bread at his side but Bush hadn't the energy to feed himself. Sometimes he saw his Captain, holding his head up and feeding him gently like a nurse would, but Bush likened it was his feverish mind playing odd tricks on him. He did not want to think about what really had happened to his Captain of the Sutherland had the French gotten to him also.

  
How many days, weeks or months Bush had laid in this one spot he knew not. He felt he was left in a limbo, rotting in a dank casement. In the few hours Bush was awake, his mind and body were torturous, his freshly amputated leg demanded his entire attention with sharp and stabbing pains as well as constant itching from his phantom foot, so much so that not even the imprisonment bothered him anymore. Every day had turned a repetitive nightmare that he could not escape from, until one night that all changed.  
Bush had been startled awake by thunderous gunshots that sounded from outside the building, from the Rosa's Bay itself. There was flashes of orange light that reflected off the damp walls and illuminated the other sleeping, tormented bodies of the sick around him in a soft glow. Lifting himself to his elbows and using all of the strength he could muster, he strained his neck to see what he could out of the barred windows, but he could see nothing but stars in the midnight sky. He prayed it was the English, a heroic rescue and revenge for the French taking the Sutherland. He was so giddy with this new break of routine and of the possibility of his nightmare ending that he managed, with his hoarse and dry throat, to yell out "Damn the Frogs!" which provoked a warning from the french guard in the corridor but also some ramming up support from the fellow prisoners. After and hour or so of listening and judging the battle outside with sound alone, Bush dropped back into sleep, but no night terrors this time. Only hope.

But hope did not find Bush the following day. Like so many mornings before, Bush had woken with a sharp pain in his left leg, in the same bed, damp with his sweat, and greeted by the moans of his fellow patients around him. But something else was happening that was not part of the usual routine, as to his right just outside in the corridor, his Italian surgeon and an officer, dressed in the blue and red of Bonaparte's gendarmerie whom Bush had not seen before, appeared to be in the middle of a heated conversation. The stranger was almost red faced with rage until the Governor arrived and interfered. The Governor, as it looked to Bush, calmed both the men down and they seemed to have come to an arrangement, but the Surgeon still looked disgusted as he let the Officer and the Governor pass him, and the three men approached towards Bush.  
When it soon became apparent that Bush neither spoke nor understood French or Italian they quickly gave up trying to explain the situation so instead Bush watched as a pair of guards carried in a stretcher, slowly becoming aware that he was being transported. But to where? Had he guessed wrong and that the English had indeed taken the fortress and brought liberty to the prisoners? But if so, where they? Where were the cheers of British sailors on the grounds? The cries of victory? In his weak and confused state Bush let himself be handled by the two guards and his surgeon - who had grown quite protective of Bush and his left stump - and had reprimanded the guard who dropped Bush roughly down onto the stretcher. Despite the fear, the confusion and pain Bush let his heavy eyes shut close and he fell back into a restless, black sleep.

  
But not long after closing his eyes did the bright glare of sunlight hit his face and he immediately noticed he was being carried out onto a courtyard and gently lowered onto the rocky ground. He felt as though he had been holding his breath the entire time he was stuck inside that dark, dank hole inside the fortress but now, he could happily inhale the fresh and cool air and exhaled the turmoil of the last few weeks out. He tested the strengths in his arms, and tried to lift his hand over his eyes to shield his sensitive eyes to the daylight. Apart from the strong light he was suddenly engulfed in, Bush was not aware of his surroundings until a tall and lanky figure casted a shadow over him to Bush's great relief, and knelt down earnestly. It wasn't until Bush had blinked focus back into his eyes did he see the face of his Captain and friend, Horatio Hornblower, his cheeks hollower, his face pale and drawn than usual but his eyes were as intense and melancholy as ever.  
"They're going to take us to Paris, Bush," Hornblower said.  
Bush was overwhelmed by the appearance of his friend, at his side and seemingly unharmed but the words coming out of his mouth did not make sense to his laudenum-numbed brain.  
"What, you and me, sir?"  
"Yes," Hornblower replied quietly.  
Suddenly the illustrated images of Paris he had seen in books and papers flooded into his mind, he almost smiled at the possibility of himself and Hornblower visiting the famous sights together, no longer at war with the people of Paris. It was almost like a dream. But also like Hornblower was jesting with him.  
"It's a place I've often wanted to see."  
Before Bush could gauge Hornblower's reaction, he was once again lifted and guided inside a coach he had not noticed since he entered the courtyard. He was crammed inside a stuffy small space and immediately felt awful. His eyes, ears and hands were searching for Hornblower, for anyone familiar and soon enough Hornblower was there. _By God!_ Thought Bush. He was so pleased to know Hornblower was there by his side. To Bush it did not matter if they were indeed on a passage to Paris or to Atlantis itself, as long as Hornblower was there alongside him.  
Hornblower sat at the space next to where his head laid and it was only when he saw Hornblower speak to another person in the carriage did he notice the Captain' coxswain, Brown. Brown was a fellow Bush respected and knew was a hard worker and so was happy to see him with Hornblower. Whatever business this moving about was, Hornblower was in the most capable hands. If only Bush did not feel like such a burden.  
Now as the coach started, dragged along by six strong horses in a brisk pace, did Bush realise the extreme discomfort and pain the uneven ground did to his body and stump. Bush's entire person twinged in pain as the coach bumped on the country road. It took all of Bush's stoic discipline to not cry out in front of his superior. It was more than he took take for Hornblower, a man he had so long admired and served alongside as well as under him, to see his First Lieutenant so weakened and feeble. Bush was disgusted with his wound and with himself. But as he was stuck inside his black thoughts, a gentle and helpless voice cut through. It was Horatio. Not the voice of Captain Hornblower, but the Horatio who had cradled the head of a wounded William Bush on the deck of the Renown many years before.  
"Is there anything I can do?" He now asked.  
"Nothing, thank you, sir." Bush whispered, he wished he sounded more convincing, his voice was pitiful.  
He felt Hornblower hesitate at his side, as though searching for words to comfort him by, but instead he settled with "Try and sleep."  
Bush did feel like sleeping, his head was throbbing with pain and his senses were no longer within the coach but somewhere else. All Bush seemed to be aware of was the warm presence of Hornblower beside him and he reached for that. It felt as though it was the most natural thing to do as Bush's free hand, placed outside the blanket stirred and moved towards Hornblower's own and squeezed it. He stroked the long nimble fingers of Hornblower's he admired many a time, back when he watched Hornblower work his graphs and calculations alone together in his cabin. Overcoming with want and desire to caress them and kiss each finger one by one and to tell Hornblower exactly of his feelings, of the deep passion within him. But for now, in his pathetic and unguarded state Bush decided he would do just one of those things. With a small content smile forming onto his pale face, he caressed Hornblower's hand as though it were a woman's - nay - a lover's.

Bush woke up during the late afternoon feeling more clear headed, he was not sure if it was because of the ludenum leaving his system or the fact that being physically out of the hell hole in Rosa's Fortress was the true remedy. He watched, in his lethargic state the passing trees outside the window of the coach and thought more about his and Hornblower's destination. He was sure now that Hornblower was not making a joke, that they were sincerely travelling to Paris and in great haste. They were still in French custody, that was apparent from the heavily guarded coach, and that they were fiercely important to Bonaparte. The only conclusion Bush could decipher out of this situation was that they were to be sent on trial before 'The Emperor' himself. Bush contemplated this for a moment and estimated the likelihood of surviving. He had never feared death, it was pain that he was scared of and he had lived through that for too long already. But despite not fearing the coming of death, Bush did not will it to come either. He thought about his mother, the old capable hen she was. And then of his four elder sisters, all completely dependant and reliant on his wage and career as a British Navy Officer. When he dies, for Bush knew that that was a possibility not to take for granted, he had manage to put away what little he already had in way of insurance, along with what the Navy would give as compensation, they should be set up prettily until each sister was married one day. Though Bush was never the most creative nor imaginative man, as the coach carried him, Hornblower and Brown across the French countryside he imagined each one of his sisters walking down the aisle. In one version he imagines himself giving away his sisters, walking the aft of the church towards his sisters' respectable fiancés, but also a version where he did not give them away, for perhaps before these imagined weddings he had, by chance, been hit by a 12 pounder out on the water, guillotined, or shot by a firing squad.  
It was a sad thought to brood upon and yet Bush found he was increasingly preparing himself for the worst outcome, which was unfair to Hornblower and Brown. He knew Hornblower too well to know that he was already brewing up some idea of escape, Bush could see that just by Hornblower's deep furrowed brow that he was lost in some long train of one of his brilliant and faultless plans. But with Bush in full wits about his awkward and clumsy frame he now possessed, he decided he would not be a part of any of that plan. He would be a liability to Hornblower and Brown. _Rather have Hornblower safe and fighting for Britain,_ thought Bush adamantly, _than he to take such risk in rescuing my poor and crippled form_.

 

That evening the coach stopped at their first lodging, and Bush was carried once again out by the guards, under the strict eyes of Hornblower this time. When his stretcher hit one of the door frames hard Bush had to stifle a cry of pain, "Careful with that stretcher!" Hornblower snapped, and then repeated it in French realising the nationality he was instructing at.  
Bush watched Hornblower and Brown talk to the Innkeeper and settle into the one square room the three would share that night. But with increasing awareness of his bladder and how much he need relief, so when Hornblower fixed his attention on Bush and asked if there was anything to do for him, Bush slowly pushed aside his shame and explained the need of sick-room nursing. Bush's stomach knotted up at the look of helplessness and loss in Hornblower's expression and so avoided Hornblower's eyes and stared at Brown's steady pair instead.  
"I am afraid it'll call for the two of you, sir," He started, apologetically, "because I'm a heavy man."  
He noticed Hornblower stand up straighter at his tone and seemed to put aside any hesitation and pride to muster up all the cheerfulness he could in his reply, "Of course!" And as though they were back on deck, Hornblower turned into his Captain rank once again and ordered. "Come on, Brown. Lift him from the other side."  
The next few minutes were extremely uncomfortable for Bush, who felt like an infant and so turning his superior into this nurse-maid position. Finally, when dependable and - sturdy as a rock - Brown took domain in Bush's care he offered to wash and shave him. Bush gladly accepted, he wanted to feel more like his old clean-cut, naval standard self again. Focusing on Brown while the burly sailor placed a towel around him, Bush began to really appreciate his steady and calm presence. Despite Brown being inferior to both of his officers he was never resentful or unkind, nor did he seem to begrudge his duty. Though he was never the sentimental nor poetic sort, Bush began to recognise why the British Royal Navy was so strong and unsinkable, and that was because of men like Brown.  
Brown effortlessly shaved and cleaned Bush, to the point where he wondered whether Brown had have previous experience with caring for a cripple before and thanked him sincerely. Bush was hoping that that was enough attention on him for one night and did not want to feel such a burden to his Captain and coxswain until just then the door opened and admitted a little bearded man who announced himself, as far as Bush could make out in French, as a surgeon. Bush was already skirmishing at the thought of someone looking at his horrible stump, let alone in front of Brown and Hornblower.  
Hornblower translated between Bush and the surgeon, though Bush would have happily remained ignorant to all the conversation. He did not need words to know what was about to come. He was also aware of how madly his foot - or the foot that once was there - itched like the very devil, the sensation grew worse especially when attention was put on it.  
"Would you tell him, sir, that my foot which isn't there tickles most abominably, and I don't know how to scratch it?" He asked Hornblower rather begrudgingly, as he couldn't ask the surgeon himself.  
Bush realised then that he had lived his whole life with an itch he could not scratch. Whether it was living with his mother and four other female siblings and not feeling like he belonged. So he joined the navy to find if then he could finally feel some relief in his teenage years. However, later on, while returning in his twenties on shore-leave, he chaperoned his sisters at balls to find them husbands. But his sister were not the only children his mother was so desperate to marry off. To his mother and sisters dismay, Bush could not find a woman who could 'pin him down'. So before they knew it he was back to duty with the Navy. Though he was at his most content on a ship, his still felt that relentless itch, an itch that was buried somewhere deep inside his chest that he had no idea of how to scratch. As Hornblower translated across what the surgeon told him; "The itching will come to a natural end in course of time." Not only was Bush hoping that was the case for his phantom foot, but also for that one itch in his chest he still carried with to this day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter carries on where it was left off and closely follows the narration of the book, but I've have added some flashbacks. I hope you enjoy this chapter and if so, please leave kudos and/or a comment. I really do appreciate all the comments so far, thank you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Sanguinity! Happy Birthday and I hope you like this one.

The pain William Bush was feeling when the French surgeon was checking and presenting his wound to Hornblower was almost as excruciating as the shame he felt. Bush had often prided himself with the notion that he alone was able to read his Captain's face the same way he could read the change of wind in the sails of a ship. Sharing the quarterdeck with Hornblower after so many years Bush was accustomed to all of Hornblower's moods, and they were as changeable as the ocean. Hornblower would prefered to see himself as a master of concealing his inner feelings, presenting himself as the brave, unwavering pillar of strength to his men. And though true that many of his crew would take Hornblower's exterior as exactly that, Bush could see the internal insecurities his Captain had struggled, along with the responsibility of so many men, heavy in his hands. However Bush knew that those very same hands would never falter when called into action.  
Hornblower on land was just the same as he was on sea, he recognised. In the room, as the surgeon demonstrated to Hornblower the caretaking of his stump, Bush could see the squeamishness that Hornblower was trying so hard to mask. The surgeon prepared to pull the threads out, so he could determine the healing. Bush, unlike Hornblower, did not mask any of the apprehension of this very action, for he was well studied to the pain that this was going to give.  
"I know," Bush said, "I know what he's going to do - sir." Bush had almost forgotten the 'sir' as mentally prepared for what was about to come. He gripped the bedclothes into his fists, jaw set and eyes closed.  
"I'm ready."  
The first pull wasn't as painful as he had remembered the last time, however the next pull drew a big gasp out of his mouth. His body was covered in sweat from the excursion, but Bush laid his eyes on Hornblower, and found that between the space of when he had gasped and of the surgeon leaving, Hornblower was still rooted in the same position, eyes glazed over, his brow glistening with sweat and with his his expression utterly hopeless. Bush attempted a small smile in assurance to his paled face Captain.  
Brown had rescued Hornblower's pride then and turned his act as nursemaid onto his Captain next. Luckily supper was ready at the door and everyone could then put that moment behind them. However, Bush had long heard tales of French appetites, of frogs, snails and God knows what else they stewed within their pots, so he was not setting his hopes high with the upcoming meal. He noticed Hornblower in one of his inner turmoils again but to feel more helpful Hornblower lifted Bush in a better position for his supper, and Bush tried not to tense up with the contact. He hated placing Hornblower into this position but Bush realised how hungry he was, so hungry that he'd consider eating snails if that was what's left. It was in fact, Hornblower told him, soup with stewed veal, alongside some wine. Bush took the spoon Hornblower offered him and tasted it. After living weeks on prison gruel the taste of the veal was Heaven to Bush's taste buds. And though he had turned up his nose to the 'rotgut claret' at first, the wine washed the veal down beautifully. The more he ate, Bush realised, the more he craved it.

Bush was later given more soup and veal but his greed was paid for as his body grew hot and feverish. Hornblower could sense his discomfort and the entire discomfort of the whole situation and began fussing over Bush once again.  
There was a discussion about the bed, and once Bush had explained that he was perfectly fine in his stretcher, and after insisting that Hornblower should take it, he wanted to ask a more pressing question.  
"What are we going to Paris for, sir?"  
"God knows," said Hornblower quickly. "But I have a notion that Boney himself wants to ask us question."  
Bush paid great attention to Hornblower's expression and words, he was sure that Hornblower was telling the truth but the quickness in his words placed a little doubt in his chest. But he knew Hornblower better than that, Hornblower wouldn't lie to a officer even on his deathbed.  
Bush considered his answer and agreed, but "Much good will our answers do him," he said grimly. He had a rather comical image appear in his head however. "Perhaps we'll drink a dish of tea in the Tuileries with Maria Louisa."  
"Maybe." A ghost of a smile passed across Horatio's lips then. "And maybe he wants lessons in navigation from you. I've heard he's weak at mathematics."  
Bush smiled wide, it was painful to, but Hornblower drew such happiness that he didn't know he still had. Though Hornblower and Bush were in enemy hands, with all their command taken away from them and their freedom, the three of them still had each other. Even if William Bush was, he had to admit, rather bad at mathematics.  
"Boney and his frogs would need to do a lot more to get me talking, I assure you, sir." Bush had joked, but Hornblower looked deeply worried. Bonaparte would do anything to require information out of a British Navy Captain, he would torture Hornblower and leave his body like rags. Bush's mind turned sour at the thought and did not want to think any more on it. He was growing weaker and tiredness had caught up to him, he felt Hornblower's pity on him now and it did little to make him feel any better.  
Thankfully, not long after Hornblower argued for a proper mattress for Brown to bed in, did he announced it was time to turn in. Bush sunk even deeper onto his stretcher, his eyes dropping and sleep slowly creeping, but not before he saw Hornblower dressing himself in a rather gaudy embroidered silk nightshirt, that barely covered his body. Only Bush's feverish mind would put Hornblower in such a odd and revealing piece of clothing, and he smiled a little more before dropping into a fever-laden sleep, to more disturbing scenes of torture, war and death.

The floor was shuddering with the footsteps of Hornblower and Brown causing Bush's body and stump to stir and wake to pain. Hornblower was kneeling over Bush's body, in the same ridiculous silk nightgown Bush had imagined the night before, but this Hornblower wasn't a vision, it was the same concerned Horatio from the coach and the Renown looking down at him with his deep set eyes.  
"I'm well enough, thank you, sir." It was useless to deny he knew, with his body so tense and his fist tight with the bedsheets. He felt worse than he ever had since leaving Rosas Bay and knew that moving would be a struggle.  
_Just leave me here, Horatio._ Bush thought. _I am a lost cause with this damned body!_  
The surgeon was over him before he even was aware time had passed and went back to pulling his ligatures. Bush was too distracted by the fever to notice the first one being removed, however the second one - "Arghhh!" A long and high shriek that Bush realised was coming out from his own mouth. It was the same cry, Bush was not aware of, that went clean through Hornblower's heart, and caused Hornblower to hold Bush's writhing body down on to the stretcher.  
Bush sank back into a haze that was not unlike his laudenum filled days in Rosas and heard Hornblower speaking with the surgeon, which then was followed by him storming out of the room carrying such confidence and authority as though he was not a prisoner of war under French custody but back on his own ship.  
But whatever Hornblower had tried to say or do, Bush heard the sharp words of Colonel Caillard from the courtyard, "Sergeant, put the prisoners in the coach."  
Bush realised then that he was going to die on the coach, whether Hornblower liked it or not.  
Bush was resigned to the fact that this was going to be his last journey. His last few hours on Earth would be him lying in this God Forsaken box of timber, bouncing around the road like a loose cannon. He tried to focus on the landscape passing outside but it gave him no joy, no happiness. This wasn't his home he was seeing the last of. It was some foreign land whom lived no one he knew apart from the enemy. And importantly, it wasn't the sea. Bush had always imagined he would die at sea, there was never any other possibility of another ending for him. The autumn hills and forests drew no peace for Bush's dying thoughts.  
He felt a warmth in his left hand just then and so turned his head towards Hornblower sitting so close to him that Bush could feel his breath on his face, as well as his hand in his.  
"Don't you worry yourself, sir." Bush assured him. Hornblower looked so low as though this has all been his fault. Hornblower always took everything onto his own shoulders. The coach drove other a bump on the road and Bush felt his leg inflaming his entire body and gripped Hornblower's hand tighter in his.  
"I'm sorry, Bush." was all Hornblower could manage. Bush wasn't sure but Hornblower's eyes seemed to glisten as though tears were gathering behind them. But if there were tears in Hornblower's eyes none had fell.  
"We can't help it sir." Bush smiled. He realised then that dying besides Hornblower was another, even more comfortable place to die and that was enough for Bush, more than enough. Bush then noticed the hurt and anger in Hornblower's expression. Hornblower was now deeply offended by this entire helpless experience, there was no nobility nor dignity in this kind of existence. Bush let go of Hornblower's hand then, leaving Hornblower to his thoughts. He didn't want Hornblower to agonise over him anymore than he already had. He turned his face away from his Captain's determined features and stared out the window, waiting for some kind of peace to arrive.

 

There was blessed stillness when Bush came around again, wondering if he was dead, until he heard the soft voices of Brown and Hornblower in the background of his foggy brain. They had stopped at another lodge and were eagerly searching for some cold vinegar.  
Bush's entire left side were burning from his stump and anything cold would be an answering prayer for him at this moment. There was also his glands that were swollen around his entire body, his throat, under his armpits but the worst area was above his legs. He noticed that there was no official surgeon about and that Hornblower had already rolled up his sleeves with prepared bandages and the saucer of vinegar Brown had provided from a maid. Hornblower gently removed the basket that shielded his stump, but as far as Bush was concerned it did nothing to hold away pain.  
The stump was red, swollen, and hot to the touch, even several inches above the point of amputation.  
"It's pretty swollen here, too, sir." he whispered. Bush did not care about dignity at this point and his hand gestured to the large glands in his groin. Hornblower observed and replied a simple, "Yes." This tone implied that Hornblower knew it was another symptom to his high fevers and Hornblower noted to himself to demand more cold water, or preferably ice if such an inn stocked a luxury as that in future.  
Now Hornblower, using those same capable fingers Bush had watched play whist so well in the past, cautiously held the last remaining thread. Bush felt no tugging sensation, just hotness. He just saw Hornblower sitting there, sighing and grinning with relief as the last thread, freshly pulled from Bush's leg, was hanging in his fingers.  
"I think you're going to start getting well now." Hornblower said, with some cheer in his voice. Whether genuine or not, it did not matter. The fact that his Captain had went to such lengths to help his wound, shone some light and life into his heart once again. But sadly his physical body was still the same. Bush understood though that this time he wasn't dying, that the fever will pass and so would the pain. But it did not take away the feeling that he was now a cripple, not even a cripple in the British Royal Navy, but a cripple left in the hands of the vengeful French. It was like the expression his mother had said many times in their life growing up, 'out of the frying pan and into the fire.'

 

The journey to Paris quickly grew monotonous and the seasons turned. Bitterly winds blew in cold drafts inside the coach, Hornblower now mostly confined himself in the coach, rather than stick his head out of the window which now had become a habit, much like how he paced uninterrupted on his quarterdeck every morning. Bush's slow but surely recovery allowed him to follow and even contribute in talks between Brown and Hornblower, but discussions between a Captain and his coxswain were still formal and limited. There was also Hornblower's tendencies to drift off into his own thoughts, up to hours on end and he didn't seem to wake out of them until the coach stopped at the next inn, every night. Bush could sense those thoughts when he watched the distant Hornblower. The closer they got to Paris, the more quiet and anxious he grew.  
It was during one of Hornblower's deep meditations, his head now kneeling outside the coach despite it being the bleakest afternoon they had experienced yet, when the coach unexplainably stopped. Bush raised himself up on his elbows and peered outside the rain shrewn window and saw all the gendarmes gathered around a horse, which to Bush's untrained eye seemed to have lost a shoe. Brown joined Bush looking at the whole situation to which Caillard was growing very impatient.  
"They'll be needing a new horse, I should think so, sir." commented Brown, who Bush gathered was good horseman, _another one of his many talents_ , he mused. "It'll take them a while no doubt, sir, to find the nearest stable in this weather."  
"Yes," Bush agreed. "I fear it would be nightfall before we can get moving again, Mr Brown."  
They watched, in some amusement at the disorganisation of the party leading the poor lame animal down a side track. There were more orders shouted from Caillard and the coach started off once again, now on a much slower pace towards Paris. Bush and Brown shared looks when the sun had finally died on the day and darkness descended. Bush curled deeper into his blankets, Hornblower still neglecting to close the window even with the snow beating down onto his face, and Bush wondered how Hornblower could brave the cold so well, could brave any element and situation in fact. Melancholy was in his expression, Bush could see, but damn he hoped Hornblower would close the window already, snow had already gotten into his curls turning his hair like a dusty wig, and now it was falling inside the interior of the coach. Then, as though reading Bush's thoughts Hornblower seemed to snap out of his stupor and turned to see his miserably cold companions. Quickly he closed the window and faced them, his face red-cheeked with colour from the wind, and his mood turning from melancholic to something like cheerfulness. He said to them, "God help sailors on a night like this."  
Bush and Brown met each other's eyes once again and laughed, Hornblower's cheer infectious, creating the loudest sound that they had made in the coach since they had started. It was admiring to see Hornblower rising morale once more in the face of such dismal circumstances.

 

During the slow process of their journey, Bush thought about what Hornblower had left behind, of the people Hornblower loved. Bush had known Maria Hornblower ever since Horatio and he shared a room in Mrs Mason's lodge a few years ago. Bush had thought then what a shame it was for Hornblower to tie himself up with such a plain and unremarkable girl as Maria and which now provoked a memory of when he had learned Hornblower had offered his hand in marriage to her. It had taken Hornblower already three days on their first voyage on _The Hotspur_ to finally announce that he was preparing to marry Maria. Bush was then in the middle of his meal as a guest in the Captain's cabin when Hornblower recalled the day when Maria had displayed such water works in the dining room where Hornblower just announced his new rank as commander. Bush admitted he remembered that day well. He had fled the room to flea from Maria's awkward wailing and detested the way Hornblower had stayed to indulge her hysterical woes. How Hornblower could endure it he did not know then. Bush had packed his small belongings in haste, trying desperately the distract himself with the fact that he knew why Maria was so upset. She was in love with Horatio Hornblower. Of course she was, a girl so inadequate for being a Navy Captain's wife and so far from his esteem he held for his dear friend Hornblower. When Bush saw Maria's dried tears and smiling face and Hornblower's own looking at him, Bush felt his heart sink inside him, he had never felt such emotional pain before nor since then, as he stood rigid at the bottom of the stairs, his hat and bundle under his arm, trying to appear as ignorant as possible.  
"I'm getting under way, I have to thank you for your hospitality, sir."  
That word again, _sir_.  
The word erasing all the understanding and equality they had grew between them during the peacetime. They had been through so much together and they knew so much about each other. It was causing Bush all of his stoic professionalism to not slip into sadness as he congratulated Hornblower once more on his promotion and saying his goodbyes.  
His and Hornblower's relationship were restored now back as Royal Navy Officers and now Hornblower his superior. Bush could not allow himself to hope nor wish anything more could ever exist between them.  
He also would never forget the way Maria looked at Hornblower then, gazing up at him with adoration shining in her face, and Hornblower looking down at her with infinite kindness. Back in the cabin of The Hotspur Bush guessed that something intimate had occurred between them that day.  
"Mr Bush," started Hornblower, he had hardly touched his own plate but his own glass of wine had emptied much before. "I was hoping I could ask you a-"  
Hornblower agonised over the right words to choose. "I wish to ask you a favor, Mr Bush."  
Bush looked up from his own plate, and with his curiosity peaking, set down his cutlery. His eyes watched Hornblower's face casted in the soft candle light and Bush remarked to himself how young and nervous his Captain seemed then.  
"A favor, sir?" Bush said, raising his own glass of red medira to his lips. "You know it would be my honour and pleasure to do whatever you aquire me to do, Captain."  
Hornblower smiled at Bush and straightened in his chair, his hands playing with the napkin in his lap.  
"I have asked Maria - uh Miss Mason, to be my wife and she has accepted."  
Bush noticed the way Hornblower had avoided eye contact towards the end of his sentence, instead finding the napkin in his hand far more fascinating.  
So, gathered Bush, It is what I predicted. Hornblower is marrying a woman, a woman he knows would never make him happy. Despite the good things she does for him it still won't be enough. Bush pitied Maria then, almost as much as he was envious of her.  
"That is wonderful news, Captain!" Bush cried, allowing his voice to boom, his smile wide and forced. "I am sure you have made her a very happy woman, sir."  
"Thank you, Mr Bush. It is I who is the one who is most happy however."  
"Then we should raise a toast, sir." Bush raised his glass, accepting his duties as a friend and fellow officer, "To the future Mr and Mrs Hornblower."  
Hornblower raised his own and the two clinked their glasses and drank, both long gulps each.  
"Thank you, Bush - thank you. But you have not asked me yet of this favor that I begged of you."  
"I am sorry, sir, for the good news rather took away all memory of it." Bush replied, his stomach beginning to twist with anticipation as well with the wine.  
"Lieutenant William Bush," Hornblower cleared his throat and continued on, "It would make me very happy if you would do me the honour of being my Best Man at the ceremony."  
"By God," Exclaimed Bush, his mind swimming with so many mixed responses. He finally settled on the one, standing up and saluted his friend with a forefinger to his forehead, "To be considered your best man I may carry as the most highly esteemed honour!" Bush accepted. "Of course, I will be your Best Man sir! Most happily."  
Hornblower stood up and waved away Bush's salute, the two standing as equals again since that fateful morning of the promotion and proposal/ It was then that Hornblower reached for Bush's own, horny hand.  
"You do not understand how much it means to me for me to hear you say that, Mr Bush." Hornblower confessed, his shoulder now slackened, his tension all but gone away from his body.  
The moment was very reminiscent of the time Hornblower had asked Bush to be his first lieutenant and both were very aware of this parallel. School boy-like giggles escaping from their mouths.  
Bush returned his gripp on Hornblower's hand tightly, allowing Hornblower to fully see the now full genuine smile on his face -

 

\- The coach suddenly lurched wildly from side to side, with the horses struggling through the thick snow, and the wheels skidding in puddles of ice on the track, the coach had now lost all control. It, and those locked inside it, swung roughly around without warning, and coming to a halting stop, leaving the coach leaning sharply over to one side. It was the same side where Bush was now trapped, his heavy body falling helplessly onto his right side. There was a explosion of shouts and yells in French but underneath all of that bellowing Bush could make out the sounds of fast flowing water beneath him, as though the coach was kneeling over a river bank.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Snow was driving down into the darkness, the only light glowing from the lanterns on the coach, and if the driver hadn't reined his horses about a second before the coach would be sinking into the river at this very moment. Instead, in the chaos Caillard roared at his men.  
"A fine coachman you are, God knows!"  
Bush could hear Caillard's bellows and, though spoken in French still sensed the strong sarcasm in his voice. He tried to focus on what was happening around him, instead of the the pain his current position was putting him in.  
With a pull from the tired horses, whipped by the coachmen mercilessly, the coach was landed back onto its four wheels but the conditions surrounding them was not going to make their situation any easier as the horses failed to even step through the snow, let alone drag the coach any further.  
"Heave! Heave!"  
Bush, Hornblower and Brown watched the desperate gendarmes pushing at the wheels but the coach only lurched a scant yard before halting again. It was then that an a suggestion for Hornblower and Brown to come down to help their endeavors.  
Bush could see the conflict on Hornblower's face, his eyes dark and jaw clenched Bush could see that Hornblower would happily see their captors struggling in dark cold night, serves them right. But then Hornblower's eyes flicked across Bush's face and then to his one leg and defiantly nodded.  
Hornblower and Brown stepped out of the confined coach, with the door closing shut behind them and suddenly Bush was on his own in the dark, lying uselessly on the stretcher. He realised now how dependant he was on those two men out there. They were his only link to his life in Chichester and if Bush lost Hornblower and Brown now he could see no reason the French would take any such liberties in preserving and rescuing a crippled officer of the enemy, nor would the Navy take such great risks in rescuing a mere lieutenant, imprisoned and broken beyond repair.  
No, resigned Bush, he knew when he joined the perils of the Navy and he had taken everything the war had threw at him with a stoic resilience and with commitment to his duty. Bush accepted the circumstances of being a Royal Navy officer, even as each battle and loss chipped away the hardened exterior he had managed to build around him during the years.

  
Bush's dark brooding was interrupted then with the door of the coach suddenly opening and he saw the thin outline of Hornblower and the bulkiness of Brown's in the low glare of the lanterns. Brown was carrying a large bundle over his shoulder and hauled it down onto the floor of the coach with a loud thud. The bundle was, it turned out, was an unconscious General Caillard, bounded and tied inside his own cloak with his own sword belt, and amusingly, his sash of the Legion of Honour.  
Bush could only imagine how his pale face looked to Hornblower and Brown then, seeing the two ruffled and red face after a struggle and seemingly, free.  
"Mr Bush," Hornblower began, the formal 'Mr' rousing something inside Bush, the same sensation that a call of 'Beat to Quarters!' would send his mind and body into. "We are going to escape in the boat."  
Bush in that moment had no notion of a boat at present. The image of a boat out here in the middle of this snow storm seemed like a joke to him. Yet, Hornblower was sincere he knew, but looking skeptically down at his own condition, limited in the stretcher, the resignation returned to him. He was happy they had found a way to escape all this, even if it included leaving him behind.  
"Good luck, sir." said Bush.  
The look of incredulous on Hornblower's face reminded him of a performer in a pantomime Bush had seen while as a boy.  
"You're coming too. Brown, take that end of the stretcher." Bush was lifted out of his stretcher, that old stinking thing he had laid in for weeks without end and Hornblower supported his body up, Bush could hardly think how Hornblower found the strength to carry his frame but Hornblower didn't show any signs of struggling. Just sheer determination.  
Hornblower proceeded to command Brown, holding the one end of his body with calls of "Starboard, a bit. Steady." Bush was carried out of the coach by those careful instructions towards the boat that moments before he had taken for granted. The vessel was a simple row boat, probably some local frenchman's who'd take it out onto fishing trips.

  
The snow was still falling, and Bush felt thick flakes land on him and melt into his blankets, making them cold and damp.  
"Now Bush, let's get these blankets round you." Bush watched Hornblower shrug out of his own cloak and he was damned if he was going to allow his Captain to freeze to death for his sake. He raised a weak hand in defiance, but Hornblower was adamant, and more sternly ordered, "You'll obey orders, Mr Bush."  
Bush resisted a smile, before him was a man he had witnessed many a time on the quarterdeck during a mission. He allowed himself to be carried down into the boat and stuffed, upright into the stern-sheets. Brown took the oars and shoved them off the shore and deeper into the river. Bush could only make out the silhouette of the coach on the bank behind him, reflected onto the black water he now so suddenly found himself on.  
Hornblower gave Brown instructions, letting the current carry the coat and to change their direction when the wind blew unpredictably from one way to the other. The escape all happened in a matter of minutes but snow was quickly building inside the boat. Bush shuffled his upper body to shake the thick snow that plastered him, sending a chill seeping deep into his bones.  
"Comfortable, Mr Bush?" Hornblower asked. He was sitting a yard away, seated low on the stern thwart, his cloakless figure shivering though he would never admit it to either of them. He wished he hadn't given in so easily when Hornblower offered his cloak, Bush had fought harder battles than this cold, he wasn't about to let these men down after they had risk their own escape with his  
"Aye, aye, sir."  
"Would you like to lie down?"  
Bush could sense that need in Hornblower's eyes to protect Bush, his duty being Captain.  
"Thank you, sir, but I'd rather sit."  
Bush wanted to be more involved and prepared to help in anyway he can. The three of them had fallen back into naval etiquette now they were back on more familiar territory.  
And he was glad of it, for if he hadn't been sitting up he may not have heard the whispers of fast rushing water in the distance.  
"Pardon, sir, but d'you hear anything?"  
Bush hoped he hadn't misjudged when Brown rested his arms on the oars as they all listened.  
No," Hornblower began, before perking his head up at something, "Yes, I do, by God!"  
There was now no mistaking the upcoming rapids now, and the first sign of it rushed past them, a rock jutting out of the surface with boiling white foam around it. Bush tense his body, ready for the struggle that was to come.  
"Jesus!" Bush heard Brown in the bows. That was the first alarm he had heard from Brown this whole journey, which made Bush a little uneasy, as Brown had remained unmoved during the entirety of the escape, well, until now at least.  
The boat began spinning, lurching in any which direction the water carried it. Every one of Bush's sense was being attacked his ears were deafened by the roar of the crashing water, the water stinging him on his icy skin, snow and wind blowing into his eyes, it took all he could manage to grasp tight his position on the boat else he'll be over the sides and lost into that churning white water.

  
As quickly as it had came the rapids were clear behind them and the boat was carried sluggishly down the stream.  
"Christ!" Bush remarked mildly. "We're through."  
They were through, but the boat carried a foot of water inside.  
Hornblower addressed the situation in both hands and ordered Brown to bail the water out while he rowed, yet Bush kept this ear out for any other clues of where the current the taking them, they didn't need to capsize now when they had accomplish so much already.  
He could see Hornblower looking over his shoulder as he rowed, reading the speed of the current, looking at the sky and realising that the snow had stopped falling, yet it did not make them any less colder. He caught Hornblower's concerned eye once more, making sure he did not find Bush frozen in his sheets like some sort of ice mummy he had heard from horror stories as a child.  
But Bush pretended he didn't notice the look and instead concentrated on keeping look and ear out, but Bush's relentless shivering did nothing to sooth Hornblower's worries and Bush felt shame, his own body betraying him.  
They were making good way, with Brown and Hornblower working hard at the oars, putting everything behind but every was, their lives were at stake.  
Then over the sounds of Brown's and Hornblower's strokes, Bush heard the rushing of water again.  
"Rapids ahead, sir."  
Now prepared, both Hornblower and Brown's poised their scull and fended off their sides, with Hornblower on the port side.  
Bush searched for grip, letting his blankets fall around him, the blankets would mean certain death for him if he should happen to go over the side of the boat. _Then again_ , Bush gathered, _Better to sink down quick and drown then being battered by rocks and raging water._  
They let the boat carry them once again over the water, bouncing off sharp rocks and water piling in but it wasn't any worse than the last rapids they have survived through until Bush heard the sudden panic in his Captain's voice, "By God!"  
Bush rarely heard Hornblower blaspheme nor allow his voice to reveal any telling tones to his inner feelings, but hearing the uncertainty in his friend's voice moved Bush more than the violent boat was doing, and followed Hornblower's intense gaze down the river.  
There was some sort of dam, a steep and sudden slope down to a cacophony of water and rock and Bush knew it was too late to do anything about it, they were speedily led towards it and soon the boat would be over and destroyed, with all in it.  
Bush released his grip on the boat just as it left the summit of the dam, from his position at the stern, he fell out of the boat from the slope, before it crashed into the foot with such a force it was as though the water had turned into rock.  
The air was taken out of his lungs as his weak body entered the ice cold river, he could just make out bubbles escaping his mouth in the black water, his body being dragged down in the water, he still had one blanket wrapped around his leg when he left the boat, and now it was clinging to him, weighing him down.  
He struggled with his arms outstretched and stroking himself up to the surface, his one leg kicking feebly behind him, to shake the heavy cloth away. But it was no use, all the strength he had built in all his years in the navy had withered away in a matter of short weeks. More bubbles escape his mouth, the air leaving his body, his lungs burning and bursting for relief...

  
_A flash! A sudden image of a young boy with chestnut brown hair having his head dunked in the sea, pressed down by two older lads._

  
_Cut to another image of the same boy a few years older seeing a dead body for the first time, a drowned seaman._

  
These were all memories, Bush realised. His eyes opened. The blanket gave way and parted his body, being swallowed by darkness down below him.  
Bush gave himself one last attempt and thirst all of his remaining energy into his arms and, suddenly, the cold night hit face, fresh and crisp air now gulping down his lungs. He felt a momentary relief, he had avoided the swirling water that was at the foot of their fall and had found a rock to hold onto, but he carried no energy to make it to the edge of the river, to land.

Suddenly he felt a strong arm wrap around his torso and pull him higher out of the river. The water in Bush's eyes prevented from seeing his rescuer, all he could do was let the strong swimmer lead him out of the water.  
"Ca-captain..?" Bush's voice staggered as he felt himself being lowered gently onto the snow on the bank of the river.  
"Horatio?"  
"'Ee's still in there, sir." He heard Brown's reply.  
Bush's head swam as he raised it, his eyes wiped and alert. He saw Brown, soaked and gasping for air as he kneeled beside him. He seemed unhurt and as much as Bush was thankful to be out of the water by brown he also relented how the coxswain didn't get to his captain first!  
"The Captain!" Bush wanted to tell, to scream but his voice was weak. He raised his arm towards the river.  
Brown knew was a strong order from Bush, and after checking Bush was well enough on his own for a moment, he staggered away from Bush and waded into the water, shouting for their captain, lowering his body in and feeling around the dark waters for a limp, motionless body...  
No, Bush could not think of that. Hornblower dead.  
Lifeless.  
His head was heavy, as well as his heart and he just laid there, wanting so much to jump back into the water and search for Hornblower himself. But he was still thinking of himself as the fit and able First Lieutenant William Bush, not this empty shell laying in the snow in only his sodden flannel nightshirt.  
"I see a light, sir!" Brown was now out of the water, his face turned to somewhere past Bush into the trees behind him.  
Bush didn't care, he wanted him to carry on searching for their Captain, for God's sake!  
Brown seemed to be caught in a dilemma, either risk his life again to search for Hornblower, leaving Bush lay in the snow to freeze to death or leave Hornblower and carry Bush to the light, to sanctuary and save Bush's life.  
Bush wanted to plead to Brown to choose the former. "The Captain!" He only repeated.  
He watched Brown come to his decision, he turned his back on the water and instead made to get Bush.  
Bush heard himself give a groan. But then Brown paused, as though seeing something in the corner of his eye he turned again towards the river, and sure enough they both heard someone paddling out.  
A cry from Brown!  
"Ahoy! Cap'n, Cap'n! Oh, Cap'n!"  
There was a pause, then another cry from Brown.  
"The cap'n's here, Mr Bush."  
The relief was brimming in Brown's words, planting the same relief and happiness in Bush's chest.  
"Good!" Was all he could manage to say! He was both overwhelmed by relief, angry at Brown for almost abandoning Hornblower and also desperately feeble.  
He was used to his left feeling numb but now the sensation was growing to his other leg, up to his hips, reaching his fingers and arms. Soon, he was fairly sure that everything would be numb, even his heart, now glowly with the survival of Hornblower.  
He heard Hornblower now, stumbling to his feet and charging to his side, clutching Brown's steady arm that had also saved Bush that night. Bush felt a stab of guilt about his previous anger at Brown. He had been both of their crutches at this trying time.  
Hornblower looked deeply shaken, but was now forming the composure of a steady Captain despite having nearly died only seconds before.  
"There's a light up there, sir," Brown told Hornblower hoarsely. I I was just goin' to it if you hadn't answered my hail."  
"A light?" Hornblower stood straight, Bush was impressed, more than usual and Hornblower's ability to stay alert and prepared for any tough decision. He watched him through the slit of his eyes, but still saw the struggle conflicting inside Hornblower's mind. He was thinking, _Go to the light to surrender or_ , Hornblower turned his eyes onto Bush's frame, _let Bush die on the bank overnight?_  
"We'll carry Mr Bush up,"

 

Bush's consciences by now was thin, so there was only some moments and words he caught between the fits of shivers and dark sleep.  
"There's a house just up the bank, Bush. We'll carry you there."  
"Aye aye, sir." Bush managed. He really did appreciate Hornblower telling him their plan, but he also wondered if Hornblower wasn't also saying this to keep himself sane and stay in control.  
He felt Brown and Hornblower lift him together, their hands clasped under him and if Bush weren't so dazed he would have admired their shared strength. But as expected Bush's weight and the slippery unstable ground would soon proof difficult to the exhausted sailors and all three of them stumbled, slipped and staggered down the bank they were attempting to climb over.  
Bush's stump came into some sharp object, a broken branch or other. He didn't care what it was, it sent him with enough pain to cry out.  
"Hurt, sir?" Brown asked.  
Poor Brown, even he sounded defeated.  
Bush bit back the pain and sobs, "Only jarred my stump." He had to help the others, he was pulling them back again. Again and again and again...  
"No!" Cut in Hornblower sharply, with false cheerfulness added to the curt order. "It's only a little way!"  
Hornblower seemed astonished to find Brown and Bush at his side again, and as though to take their mind's off the sheer effort of carrying Bush to the light of the house, he asked them how they had escaped the river.  
Bush explained, apparently from Hornblower's wide eyes, Hornblower had more narrowly escape the clutches of death. Bush remembered the violent white water at the base of the fall and tried to imagine the hell Hornblower had experienced whilst being stuck inside that. Bush was burdened with the knowledge that Hornblower suffered so much but decided to stayed quiet and keep his own grievance against them silently. It made Bush think what other horrors Hornblower had kept inside him, building and bubbling inside that stable facade. How much more could Hornblower handle before it all boiled over the brim of the person he was expected to be and to finally allow himself to release! To cry, to hurt, to love, to hunger, to want, to laugh, to _feel!_  
Bush watched the light of the house draw closer and closer and as it did, he wondered just how soon Hornblower's own mental dam would burst, flooding whatever world the three were about to walk into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer than I thought to finish, but I am so glad the last few chapters are out of the way. I am very excited to write about the Count's household, and Bush's recovery. Thanks for all the support so far, I really appreciate it! This is my longest and biggest fic I've published on this site yet and it's great seeing people enjoy it! I'm so grateful!


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